


Tua maxima culpa

by FLWhite



Category: Askewniverse, Chasing Amy (1995)
Genre: Banter, Car Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn Watching, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wait, wait," Banky held up a placating hand. "That is totally not my fault."</p><p>"Yes it is! If you hadn't gone all gay, then I wouldn't have--then it wouldn't have kept coming back!"</p><p>Sitting very still and straight, he said, "If you still remember, I didn't 'go all gay.' I just went for you. And I wasn't the one who said he couldn't stay."</p><p>＊＊＊</p><p>Banky Edwards, in Jersey for the holidays, discovers the magic of the season. </p><p>Banky/Holden, post-film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tua maxima culpa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for duckgirlie

 

 

No, thought Banky Edwards, brandy eggnog and Christmas trees decked out in more breakables than in a china store display didn't go together well at all. "Jesus fucking Christ." He put a hand on the back of the couch to steady himself as he examined his foot. "Oh god." A large bead of blood welled around the piece of ornament where it had torn the sock (new and half-silk, an early present from Hooper). He felt his knees give and his eyelids flutter, but his father, making a timely entrance behind him, prevented him from quite falling flat on his ass. 

"What's this? What's this?" 

"Fuck, Dad, what does it look like? That damn tree's a menace!" His mother appeared at the door to the den--she had a preternatural sense for when someone was critiquing her decor, and the centerpiece of each winter was of course her precious tree. Thus her "Banky?" was rather coolly defensive; when she saw the blood that had begun to fall onto her rug, however, she launched immediately into triage mode. In under two minutes she had her son settled on his back on the couch with a properly bandaged foot elevated by three cushions and her husband fetching the vacuum from the garage. "Thanks, ma." Banky took the glass of water his mother offered and grinned. 

"Still got those nursing powers, huh?"

"I suppose, honey." She came by him and put her arm loosely around his shoulders. "Have you gotten skinnier? Remember to eat, now."

"Yes, ma, I know," he drank; the Monmouth water plant still pumped it out as shitty-tasting as they used to, but at least she'd put some ice in it, two cubes, just right. They tinkled at the bottom of his glass, which had abstracted mistletoe dancing in a ring around its rim. An unsettling thought came to him, but before he opened his mouth, his mother said, "I know it's trendy for you--for people--boys your age to be thin, but it's not really healthful, you know. It's not worth it."

Banky stared at her, his jaw slightly slack. In the seven years since that fateful Thanksgiving when he had called home and informed his folks of the facts in two syllables, this was the first time that she'd ventured within a hundred yards of his being out. It had previously loomed silently in the corner of every visit to Highlands like an undetonated warhead. There had been terrible silences when his cell phone rang during dinner and it turned out to be Hooper or Pete or someone--it hadn't even mattered if the caller was a woman. And now she was making a run for home plate! It felt almost unfair, how casually it was done. 

At this point, his father returned with the vacuum. In the fuss of getting the cord untangled and the glass removed without further alarum, Banky forgot what he had meant to ask. It came to him unwontedly as he was trying to make himself comfortable on the squeaky bed; he was thinking of how it was really all his own fault that the stupid mattress had no soft non-squeaky spots left. Between thirteen and fifteen, he'd made sure to spread his sessions of self-love evenly across its stripy landscape, with the present result of an orchestral flourish of springs whenever he moved any part of his anatomy an inch in any direction. "Fucker," he said to it, but without vigor, because he remembered that he was going to ask his mother if he was gay because she worked at the hospital and didn't stay at home when he'd been a kid. It would've probably made her cry. On the ferry ride home, he'd decided to do something like that, not because he still wanted to be cruel to his parents as he had in his adolescence (hell, he'd been a dick to them until he'd moved to the city after taking over the comic), but because it was just so damn irritating to have to return to their false cheer every winter. But then she'd gone and surprised him out of it! 

The last mug of brandy eggnog he'd had before getting in bed--more brandy than eggnog--was starting to kick in. With his eyes comfortably half-closed, he let his mind drift back to the highly disciplined masturbation he'd conducted on this bed: what had he thought of? Mostly girls, made easier by the mags he borrowed from Holden. _Holden_. The last time they'd seen each other, at the con in the city, had been how many years ago? Holden had nice hands. Once, probably in high school, Banky remembered telling him, "You've got fucking girly hands." They were strong-knuckled, but the fingertips tapered. He grinned against his pillow. A couple of weeks before that, from a Cosmo or something that he'd nabbed from the Wawa across from school "so I can make fun of the bitches," he'd read an article that said tapered fingers were a sign of artistic genius. He had thought, he was sure, that he wanted to tell Holden he had an artist's hands. But it hadn't come out quite right. 

Lots of things hadn't come out quite right with Holden. For one, they should've kept in touch. He didn't live so far, at least most of the time. Still he'd seen almost nothing of the guy for seven years. More memories started crowding back, and, with some shock at how far he'd pushed them, he let them return. There was their first meeting; a picture of a Great White Shark, awesome even in retrospect, had been involved. There was a couple of evenings when his mother had night shift and his father was away on a trip that had been spent watching shitty 70's pornos Holden found in his brother's room. From that came something that killed the better half of his drowsiness. There had been one time-- exactly when he couldn't remember--that he had thought about Holden as he jerked off. It hadn't been intentional (of course). He had looked at a whole bunch of ancient _Playboys_ and a couple of old _Sensational Tales_ -type books, but Holden's face had just floated, with its usual goofy grin, like a poltergeist into his fervid imaginings of moaning wild-haired blondes doing nonspecific yet (he had told himself) incredibly sexy things to him. 

He'd been over enough of himself with a whole bunch of therapists and a couple of friends to be unsurprised by the memory deciding to resurface. What sat him up in bed was instead a very persistent erection. He finished off the half-glass of water on the nightstand, thinking about making speed lines. Nothing happened. Gingerly he got up and pissed. Nothing. "Motherfucking Christ," he mumbled, as he leaned against the headboard. With one hand he unbuttoned the fly of his flannel pajama bottoms while the other reached inside. "You little bitch."

* * *

By the twenty-seventh he couldn't stand it anymore. The last straw had come right after Christmas Mass, which he had attended, as usual, half-drunk. Portly Aunt Babs, a friend of his mother's since high school who lived two doors down, had actually winked at him and mouthed "nice scarf." Admittedly, the scarf was a perhaps dubious shade of pale yellow, but to have Babs wedge herself through the crowd as people were picking up their coats and (winking again), say "So, how's life in" (wink) "the big city? Exciting, isn't it?" was much, much too much.

He felt proud of himself for replying smoothly, "Yes, Aunty. Very exciting," and flipping the end of the scarf so its salmon-colored lining showed. As soon as she'd turned away--not, of course, before giggling and winking a few more times--he had made a desperate dash for his parents' car.

"Please, Banky honey, why don't you just stay for New Year's?" 

He glared at his mashed sweet potatoes for a while before trying to put on a less thirteen-year-old face. "Ma, I really gotta get back. I got a deadline on the sixth, I told you already."

They sat and ate in silence for a while. "Bring him on home to meet us sometime, son," his father said finally. Banky dropped his fork, which made only a muffled clink as it sank into the swamp of food occupying his plate. "What?"

"Bring him on home sometime." "Yes, dear, don't let him be a stranger. You're only forty-five minutes away, after all." 

He contemplated his parents as if they had suddenly told him they were crystalline life-forms from Alpha Centauri. "Who?"

"Oh, honey, come on. The _boyfriend_." Was it another part of this frightening dream, or did his mother's eyes sparkle a little as she pronounced that word? 

"I--I don't--" 

"Here, have some more of the rice pudding. Your mother knows how much you like it, better eat it up or it'll go bad in the fridge." 

He left more than half of his pudding. It was simply too terrifying to stay in that house. Within the hour, he'd gotten most of the packing done--as always, he'd brought too many shoes. Next time, nothing nice. Nothing leather. He surveyed the floor, over which half his collection was strewn, in despair. That meant bringing just a couple pairs of sneakers, maybe the heavy boots. Maybe one decent pair of something wouldn't hurt. He selected a satisfactory specimen after a quarter-hour, and cursed when he realized how long he'd taken. If he kept at it at the original speed, he could be through by nine, and there was a last boat out to Pier 11 about twenty minutes after the hour. He'd get home late; for a moment he contemplated spending the night and leaving in the morning on the express, then shook his head free of that distractingly easy option. "Too fucking dangerous, bitch."

The doorbell chimed. He hoped fervently that it wasn't Aunt Babs. He heard his mother's step at the door, opening it, then a pause. If his mother was saying something to whoever stood outside, he couldn't hear it. Without knowing why, he felt afraid. 

"Banky!" He ignored her and continued folding his boxers. "Honey! For you!"

His dread grew as he slowly went to the top of the stairs. "Banky dear, it's Holden! Holden McNeil!" It was indeed Holden. He had on an army-drab coat that must have been ten years old even back when Banky was living with him. Upon its shoulders, melting, there were flakes of snow. "Hey," said Holden, seeing him standing there. 

"Hey." For a few seconds all the things he'd learned in the last seven years--how not to, for instance, look like a human vegetable, or how to keep his face's proclivity for painfully extreme expressions of surprise under control, dissolved. But for a few seconds only. He put on a pleasant, happy-holidays-and-a-cup-of-good-cheer smile and descended the stairs, as stately as possible. His foot gave a twinge, but he ignored it. "What brings you 'round here? Haven't seen hide nor hair of you for a long time, man."

Holden wasn't saying anything; his mother seemed to have removed herself from the foyer, so Banky had to press on. "How've things been going? Did you end up doing something with that one you had at the con--"

"--Let's go for a drink." Holden's voice was very tight; upon second examination, Banky discovered that his eyes seemed oddly red-rimmed, even a little sunken. Under one was a big yellowish patch. Otherwise, he looked more or less like the old Holden (obviously, the old Holden when he was upset to the point of tears and hadn't shaven for a week). 

"Okay. Let me get my coat." 

Holden drove them in an unfamiliar pickup to the Clam Hut, where they couldn't find a parking space for five minutes. Banky undid his seatbelt as a blue yuppie hybrid began backing out, but Holden said "No," and began to put a hand on his shoulder, then snatched it back. "No, actually, let's go up to the Twin Lights instead."

"You sure?" Banky felt exhilarated; he wasn't sure if it was the exhilaration of a man who'd just realized jumping off the bridge was really going to kill him, or something else. For all that, his voice came out very steadily. "It'll be fucking cold up there. It's snowing."

Holden shrugged in response, not looking at him. "We can stay in the car."

"Okay." 

Neither of them said anything until Holden had turned off the engine in the parking lot, which was totally empty except for a maintenance van parked in a staff-only spot. Banky folded his hands on his chest and leaned into his seat. The atmosphere reminded him of that night when Holden had kissed him minutes before everything, what he'd thought was his whole life, had gone and taken itself to hell. But this time there was no Alyssa to fuck the moment up. He decided to savor the tension. 

Presently, Holden put his forehead against the steering wheel and mumbled something. 

"Excuse me?" Banky knew he was entering what Hooper had lately taken to calling his Princess Pooh-Pooh mode, but found it impossible to stop. "Sorry, I didn't catch that?"

Holden glared at him. "I said, your scarf's ugly as fuck."

"What? How rude, it was ridiculously expensive. Plus, it matches my favorite shirt."

Silence. Explosively, "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"I don't think that's how it worked, though I guess He could've worked it out. Heard it was probably more like Jesus fucking Magadalene, or maybe John on the sideÑ" Holden was kissing him again. He realized that he had been expecting something like this, and smiled against the mouth on his. Holden felt it and pulled away to continue glaring. The expression would have looked considerably more ferocious if he didn't have tears collecting in his lower lashes. Irresistibly, Banky's hand rose and curled itself gently against one stubbly cheek; Holden flinched, but sustained contact. "What's up?" 

"I don't know. I--oh my _God_ , this is so stupid. Oh my _God_." Holden retreated to his side of the cab and put his face against the steering wheel again. "Did I really just go to your parents' house? Really?" Banky watched him carefully. "Fuck. I can't believe--and you were there? What the hell were you doing there? I thought you were in California."

"Only there a couple months a year and when I have to." Holden seemed to be consumed with a minute study of the plastic grip of the windshield-wiper switch, which had a crack in it. "Most of the time I'm in the city. Got a place uptown." He felt a little guilty to push his advantage, but he said it anyhow: "Why'd you come over if you didn't think I'd be there?"

Holden exhaled. "I don't fucking know. Well actually, I--Jesus, I can't say it." Banky waited, having again folded his hands and settled himself. "I thought about you."

"How kind of you." He regretted it instantly, but Holden seemed not to have noticed. "I thought about you because I was thinking about Alyssa--that series of hers is doing amazing, by the way, holding up strong, also got a really nice website now. IÑwell, I saw--Isawachickjustlikeherinapornobutthensheturnedouttobeaman."

Banky raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"It--he, I guess. He was, um, he was--"

"Hot?"

"Yeah. Um, and then she, I mean he, started sucking off this guy, and, um--"

"It was hot?"

Holden looked aggrieved. "No, he looked like you."

"In other words, hot." He was seized by his shearling collar, ungently. 

"Can you shut the fuck up and listen for a second?" He nodded, and was released. 

"So I got to remembering that time when I asked you, and Alyssa--asked you--asked for a threesome. You remember that time. Right. Then I--then I--shit." Banky resisted the urge to open his mouth. "Then I sat down on the couch and beat off while the guy who looked just like a girl on the cover finished off the guy who looked just like you and then--and then they fucked, and I came all over the place and passed out. Don't' laugh, asshole!" His tears were finally freed in a hysterical rush. "When I woke up I thought 'Fuck, I fucked up good this time.' You were the only one who could help me."

"Help you?" Banky had gotten most of his giggles in hand, but one escaped. "You accidentally watched some gay porn, man. No harm no foul."

"That's the thing, you stupid bastard, that's the thing!" Holden suddenly crowded very close. He could smell the salt of that wet face. "I _couldn't stop thinking about it_."

"Was it really that good? Maybe I should take the name down." A fist seized one of his shoulders and shook hard. "Holden, for Chrissakes, it was a lame porno! Calm down already!"

"I can't! I kept dreaming about it, what if we had gone through with--with all of us--doodling shit in the margins even though I only had, like, three hours of my extension left to finish the issue--I even saw your face in the creamer in my coffee, you fucker!"

"Wait, wait," Banky held up a placating hand. "That is totally not my fault."

" _Yes it is_! If you hadn't gone all gay, then I wouldn't have--then it wouldn't have kept coming back!" 

Sitting very still and straight, he said, "If you still remember, I didn't 'go all gay.' I just went for you. And I wasn't the one who said he couldn't stay."

Holden dropped his hands, which had been half-fisted and gesturing feverishly. "Hey, Banky, I didn't mean it in a--like that. Not saying--"

"So you had to watch a retarded porno from wherever before you came to look for me? _Seven years_ , man! You were so sure I'd be there? You were so sure I'd give--" he shoved hard, with both hands, on Holden's chest, punctuating, "a flying fuck about what kind of movies you were getting off on?" With a long breath, he collected himself; Holden had fallen against the driver's side door after being pushed, and stayed there, coat half falling off a shoulder, as Banky withdrew his arms and crossed them. "Drive me to the house, please. I was getting ready to head back."

In retrospect he would say that his fatal mistake was deigning to look at Holden just then. That defenselessness, with a strong touch of what appeared to be awe, broke something inside him--probably rational thought, which hadn't been an easy thing to learn, and which had always been a little tough for him, anyway. "Come here." The gruffness of his own voice amazed him, and, a bit to his own disgust, began to make him hard. "Come here and see for yourself what it would've been like if we'd done it." As his mouth closed over his best friend's, he murmured, "And no distractions this time." No reply, no fist in his gut; Holden seemed to be devoting most of his attention to a shockingly wanton moan.

He went easy, much easier than he'd first wanted to when he pulled Holden to lean across the clutch and the cupholders. There wasn't a lot of space in the cab to begin with, and then when he went to unzip Holden's jeans his knee crushed a half-empty bottle of water. He could feel the bandage slipping on his foot, too, but didn't care; still, he must've made some kind of noise. "You all right?" Holden was panting so hard that even this solicitous display sounded like a dirty proposition. "Oh geez, sorry," he said as Banky held up the flattened bottle, which then proceeded to lose its cap and empty its contents onto Holden's lap and a good patch of the seat beneath. "Yargh! It's cold--"

"You know, one time I did something just like that. But on purpose. And it was a margarita, and you know, dries stickier than fucking duct tape." He unsnapped Holden's fly button with a satisfying pop. "Are you kidding me? You were going commando this whole time?" He was surprised that he was keeping up this bantering so steadily; Holden had one of the most unapologetic hard-ons he had ever seen (and, though he'd only been in the market for them for a few years, he had made a conscious effort to compensate for previous laxity). Even as he thought it he found that his mouth had turned ash-dry, forcing him to swallow.

"Ran out of underwear. Jesus, it's not funny!" 

"I dunno, man." He breathed laughingly against the skin of the head, velvety and moist with desire and the ancient bottled water, and thrilled to find it and the rest of its owner trembling. "Okay. Here we go." 

* * *

Unsurprisingly, there was nothing in the car he could wipe his face with. "Wait,  
don't," said Holden when he saw that Banky was using the hem of his sweater (100%  
pure cashmere, but now more like 98% cashmere and 2% cum). "Gross."

"Well, excuse me! Not my fucking fault, is it?"

"Kinda is," Holden said, throatily. 

"Oh really?" Banky smirked and slid, in one long dragging stroke, against Holden's mostly naked front as he uncurled from the floor, so that they ended up nose-to- nose, both half on the driver's seat and half leaning on the steering column. It wasn't very comfortable, and the cut on his foot was protesting at having weight put on it, but Banky could feel the heat of Holden's crotch though his own jeans, which had for all this time been chivalrously zipped. He now remedied this situation. "Lemme show you whose fault it is again, just so you remember and don't get all uppity, bitch." As he renewed the assault; it began snowing more heavily, and soon the windshield was cloaked with white, through which only tiny sparks from the dim amber streetlights fell. 

 


End file.
